


Wrapped Around

by osmalic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-21
Updated: 2007-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:43:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osmalic/pseuds/osmalic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What James, Remus, Sirius, Peter and Lily all want for the future. And for Harry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrapped Around

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jaory](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=jaory).



> For the 2007 HP_HolidayGen.

James knows Lily has been tired lately, so the next time the Charmed bear they spelled to monitor the baby's room produces soft sounds of crying, he bites back a groan and gets up anyway.

The nursery is decorated with all the baby stuff that Lily likes; some are even Muggle, despite James' protest. "I have to keep up with the times," Lily argues, and after some words, he ended up agreeing. There was no use arguing with his wife.

Harry has all hands and feet in the air, still getting used to the light and the blankets. James glances down at him, cursing himself for feeling all mushy and sweet whenever he sees his one-month old son. In turn, Harry blinks away his tears, bottom lip trembling with uncertainty.

"Oh, come here, you," James finally says, scooping his son out of the crib and cradling him in his arms.

It does not come naturally, he thinks to himself. He's never had to carry a baby, and he and Lily spent the entire first month trying not to break the kid--that they once spent half a day just _staring_ at the crib with horrified looks, trying not to glance at each other.

Harry glances up at him, his pudgy fingers brushing against the stubble beginning to grow on James' jaw. He smiles down at his son, falling in the nearby rocking chair.

"Hey," he says quietly. "Hey, you. Did you dream of something?"

Harry's face begins to scrunchup again, and he takes a deep breath as if readying himself for a scream.

"Hey," James says again, this time more alert. He tries bouncing the baby lightly in his arms. "No need for hysterics, eh, son?"

 _Son,_ he thinks to himself. He uses it to describe this baby a lot, especially to friends and colleagues, but he's never called Harry 'son' before, and it...it's strange. _Son,_ he tries again. Not at all right, but not all-wrong, either.

James has always known, at the back of his mind, that he would have a family, would settle with a nice girl, and would likely have children. But no-one's ever told him how it would feel, holding a baby in your arms at 2 in the morning. No-one ever thought to tell him how vulnerable a man could become, holding his newborn son in his arms while around them, the world might be ending.

Harry gurgles, hiccoughs, and makes a rude noise. James smiles, tries to ease this discomfort in his heart. He tells Harry, "Little man, you'll be so damned lucky, because when you grow up, you won't even remember this war." Hs voice is rough and determined, but he believes it with all his strength.

Perhaps Harry does, too, because in a few minutes he has fallen asleep in James' arms, tiny fist resting against the hollow of James' throat. James remembers earlier that day, seeing Evan Rosier—his old schoolmate—screaming as he aimed his wand at James, and all he could think about was, _"Well **damn, until he realised Moody had stepped in front of the spell and aiming a counter-curse to Rosier without even noticing the huge chunk that was hanging from his not-nose.**_

It had been a close call and Lily needn't have heard it, but it makes James tighten his hold on his son.

"You'll have a future," he tells Harry, but in his mind, he is remembering the past: his old bedroom and how his parents had ensured his safety.

It is dawn and Harry is already back in his crib when James surveys his finished work.

The ceiling has sigils now, to ward against poltergeists, because James cannot risk petty accidents. At each corner, laid on the floor, are runes that were also carved on the floor of his old bedroom; they were mostly blessings of sorts. Latin prayers are spelled on the wallpaper, traced with the tip of his wand, as wishes for a better future.

They are old wards, old protection methods, handed down from generations.

James knows—as every pure Wizarding family know—that his blood is not old, not as old as the Blacks or the Malfoys, but it is old enough.

Harry is sleeping in the crib, and James looks down at him, exhausted.

"It'll be enough," he vows, but his voice breaks. "Please, oh _please,_ let this be enough to keep him alive."

* * *

In-between jobs (or at least, he tells himself it _is_ in-between jobs) Remus Lupin finds himself stuck with baby-sitting duty while James and Lily are out of the house.

"Sorry, old chap," James sounded apologetic when they fire-call Remus' dingy flat. "I thought I'd do right to give Lily some time off."

Remus had nodded, told him not to worry, and tried not to feel that small thrill in his heart that still sings whenever he thinks, _"They're still my friends and I have nothing to worry about."_

Harry is lying in his crib, waving his arms like he wants to _reach_ for something, but Remus does not dare hold out his arms. He does not want to give the baby an impression that he wants to hold him. He does not want to be there at all, because he can be looking for another job to replace the last one he lost a month ago, and he certainly does not want to hold a child, and wonder if he'll ever be lucky to have one of his own, wonder if he'll survive this war in the first place.

But Harry gives a wail, and Remus sits at the kitchen table, staring down at him hopelessly. "Harry. Harry, what do you _want?"_ he asks, trying not to sound frustrated.

The baby only shakes, quivers, then starts screaming again, and now Remus wishes he can just pull out his hair. He gets Harry's formula, sticks the bottle into his mouth to keep him from crying.

It only works for a minute before Harry is turning his head away, still hiccoughing and wailing. Remus feels his nappy, learns it is not even wet. Harry's favourite Teddy Bear is next to him. Remus does not know what to _do._

"Ssh," he begs instead. "Please, I'll give you whatever you want. Do you like stories? I've a book, _Advanced Peruvian Charms_ , right here." Harry's voice trails off from a wail to hiccoughs, staring up at Remus as if he is learning to recognise his figure. Encouraged, Remus goes on, "You like reading, yeah? I'll read it to you."

And he pulls up a chair next to the crib, starts reading the eighth chapter in a sing-song voice, skipping over the gory parts even though he knows Sirius and James would certainly approve of those particular bits. Remus is a believer of innocence and he does not want the words to taint this child.

Just like how he does not want to touch the baby.

Harry falls asleep, resigned. Remus leans over the crib bars, watching him, knowing he could have held the baby in his arms and rocked him. James and Lily would likely be pissed if they learn how Remus botched up even the simplest job.

How can he explain how he doesn't want to hold this boy—this boy who isn't his? How can one even start to say how much he would want a piece of this perfect scene for himself, knowing he will never have it?

Remus is cursed, and he knows if he stays here too long, he will start dreaming again: of a normal life, of a caring family, of children. He will start dreaming of a life beyond the war, where there is no more discrimination and hiding. He will begin to wish for things that he would want to keep for himself.

Best to be on the safe side, Remus decides. Try not to pass on the curse.

And he has only ever known of one way to protect people he cares about: by turning away.

* * *

Sirius Black never thought it possible, but strolling through Muggle London with a magical sling holding a baby around his neck isn't such a bad idea. In fact, he thinks it is a whopping great idea, whisking his godson away from his overly protective parents.

Right now, James would be finding the note on his desk: _"Took Harry for a day-off. Enjoy your few hours."_ Of course, he and Lily would fret, probably tear off Sirius' scalp when he gets home, but damn it, Sirius _likes_ being with Harry, has even cheerfully learned how to pack and prepare the proper number of formula and baby diapers in the bag to make this a momentous occasion.

And it is a wonderful day to go out. For once, it isn't raining and the people around them do not look like they aren't hurrying towards a hellish goal this September afternoon.

"What do you say, little man?" he asks Harry cheerfully. "I think you'd like to be properly educated on the Muggle ways, don't you?"

Harry laughs and shrieks, like he always does whenever Uncle Sirius is with him, and there is a pain in Sirius' chest that makes him wish that he can convince James and Lily to just _hide,_ to live as Muggles for some time. It might be bloody inconvenient, but at least they'd be safe, and Sirius knows it's all that should matter. Yet he cannot help the pride that swells in his heart whenever he looks at his friends, thinking how they are staying on to fight this war.

Sirius was brought up to hate Half-Bloods and anything Muggle-related, but during his second year in Hogwarts, it is as if something had changed and he could see everything through different eyes. How _ingenious_ they were with their machines, and how they used words and chants with Wizarding origins, making them look superior even though they have no bloody idea. They are quaint, _perfect._

He brings Harry to the park, and chats with some of the parents. "No," he tells them, grinning, "I'm just baby-sitting for my best friend." _That's nice of you,_ they tell him, utterly charmed. Sirius only grins, liking how they do not look at him strangely, loving how he blends in.

Harry becomes fussy, but silences when Sirius gives him a bottle of formula before patiently waiting for the kid to burp. He lets the baby dose off in the park as he looks at the other children.

Sirius thinks: Harry will have to grow up in a world like this. He thinks of his friends, but it also makes him think of Remus, who is always pale and making excuses whenever they invite him over, and he has to forcibly quell the rage and suspicion that rush in him when Harry wakes for another walk.

They watch the changing of guards in Buckingham Palace, but Harry only gurgles in Sirius' chest, and there is a tightness in Sirius' heart as he watches it. He remembers soldiers, his comrades, his friends from the Order of the Phoenix dying. He wonders about his family, remembers his little brother, only last year...and Sirius stops the thought.

Because Sirius does not believe in old wards and old protection sigils his crazy mother and weary father used to place by his old bedroom. He believes in new spells now. They had placed the same protections in Regulus' bedroom, and now look where his brother was: disappeared, presumed dead. And thank god, that fucking Death Eater. _Goddamn him,_ Sirius thinks angrily, hugging Harry to his chest.

Their last stop is a music store, selling records and 45's. The new Judas Priest song, released earlier that year, is being played on the radio and Sirius sings out-loud, dancing and jumping with little Harry squealing against his chest as the customers watch them.

  
_...gonna gather my things, go through the door  
Live and let live from now on.  
At last a free hand,  
no longer pre-planned  
I got a will of my own._   


Later, he brings Harry home, slung and snug in the magical baby sling to keep him cosy and undisturbed as Sirius revs the motorcycle over London, over Diagon Alley, through complicated roads and to Godric's Hollow where every light in James and Lily's house is lit.

"Hey, little man," he whispers just as Harry opens his eyes blearily. "We're home now. You're home."

Harry snuggles closer to him, gurgling happily.

And it's not Sirius'--this baby, the music, not even a part of the legacy he ran away from, but Sirius believes in new things, new futures. He believes in Muggle music, in rock n' roll, in Judas Priest's "You Don't Have to Be Old to be Wise", and Led Zeppelin and The Rolling Stones, and he mostly believes in the religion of The Beatles. He believes that times are changing and ways to keep someone safe are changing too.

But most of all, he believes in destinies that constantly change.

If he lets himself dwell on it, he likes to believe that, after the war, Harry will have all the choices will be allowed to have. He likes to think that this child will hold on to them, like he does with Sirius' fingers, like Sirius did when the world of Muggles was opened before him.

It is with new words, new songs, new worlds that Sirius gives his protection, and he knows Harry will hold on to them with his tiny, baby hands.

* * *

It's wrong, wrong, wrong to deceive them like this, but Peter Pettigrew knows everything will go to hell soon, and it is his last chance to make his amends.

He looks at James, almost wants to kneel before his friend, clutching his robe, to sob and sob. He looks at Lily, makes himself hate her, thinking, _It's all your fault, if only your blood wasn't tainted, then this wouldn't have happened._

But Lily smiles at him sadly, and Peter excuses himself again when he finds himself smiling back, knowing it has never been about hate, but it has always been about power.

So he thanks them for a chance to say good-bye to baby Harry, lets them leave the nursery with their heads bowed together and exchanging murmurs, and Peter embraces the child for the last time, then puts him down to his crib.

"You'd have been a great kid," Peter tells Harry softly. "It would have been nice, teaching you to mount a broom, see you make your first potion, probably watch as your dad and mum bring you to Hogwarts."

Harry stares up at him with wide eyes. And Peter mops his brow, wondering why this is so difficult.

"But you understand why I'll do it," he whispers. "You versus the world, and we can turn this war around. End it. With just...just..." He stops.

He refuses to think of this child as someone.

 _Someone_ is James Potter, who will be spared.

 _Someone_ is Lily Evans, who will have more children.

Harry—this _baby_ —is merely a tool, something that, when eliminated, will give Peter power. More importantly, give the new world a _chance_ to be born, to grow. After the war, they can go back to rebuilding their lives, protecting their children (not Harry, _not Harry)_ , perhaps...perhaps...

Harry stares at him, unblinking, arms and feet reaching out. Peter holds out his fingers, touches the baby's soft palms.

He hisses when his rough hands touch the soft skin. Harry only laughs.

"You'll accept all that you can, boy," Peter says, sneering because he feels hopeless. "You'll take every bone that they throw you and rip off its meat because in the end, what does it matter that you're gnawing at your brother's bones to keep your belly full? Eh, boy?"

His breaths are coming in short gasps and for one moment, _one moment,_ Peter thinks he will touch the Dark Mark on his left arm to call it off.

But then Lily is back, James behind her, and Peter sees them—hopeful.

Alive.

 _It's a small price to pay for peace,_ he thinks.

And it's the only way to protect the things Peter believes are most important of all.

* * *

Oh god, oh god, oh god, _ohgodgodgodgod_ who will protect them now?

James is dead, downstairs, _dead,_ and Lily has no time to even think about him now. She must get to Harry, and _godspleasehelp_ she has to keep him alive.

Behind her, the figure is stalking; taking his time, footsteps on the stairs, and Lily throws things down the hallway, throws paintings at the direction, only to have them easily knocked aside with the wand.

"I'll let you live," Voldemort hisses. "You will have everything you wished for—" She wants peace, she wants life, she wants so many things that he'll never give her, gods, James, _Harry!_ "Just give me the child—"

 _"NO,"_ Lily flings back, locking the door.

Harry is in his crib, only four months old, not even standing but he stares at Lily's face. "Don't worry, baby," she whispers, knowing she is dripping blood from where a _Sectumsempra_ spell grazed her head. "Don't worry."

The drawer she shoves under the doorknob rattles, slowly pushed aside.

"I'll give you all you wished for," the dark man outside the nursery promises.

Harry holds up his hands, opening his mouth.

Lily bites back her sobs because she knows, once the door opens, she will be hurling every curse she has learned in the Order training, and she will be praying with all her breath, and she will be dead.

Now she is down to one last protection spell.

And then the drawer is gone, the door is ruined, and Lord Voldemort stands before her: figure tall and horrible, dark cowl not disguising the gleam of red eyes in the nursery. Lily stands her ground, clutches her wand. The silent _Expelliarmus_ is thrown aside; other curses, hexes, jinxes, even charms to manipulate the environment are shoved away, hurled back to her now-bloodied form.

"Just Harry," the Dark Lord croons. "I'll let you live, you Muggle woman, just step aside."

"Not my son," she says through clenched teeth. _"I'll die first."_

"And you will," Voldemort assures her, suddenly cold, impatient, and he raises his wand.

 _I'll die first,_ Lily thinks again, and then thinks, irrationally,

Different choices rush to her: Dumbledore, McGonagall, Sirius (god, Sirius, please be alive), or even Remus (oh, Remus, I should have known it wasn't you).

 _Severus_ —if Lily had just mailed that letter to him, if she hadn't been stubborn, perhaps Severus will agree to protect Harry when she's dead.

If Lily had thought to make the first move, maybe even Petunia would consider, because surely a death would make her sister consider keeping a baby.

They aren't the best options to protect Harry, but maybe they won't have to if this...

If this...

...if this.

Green light flashes before her eyes, reaching out to claw her eyelids, along with intense pain that wracks her body like electric jolts: hard and fast.

 _If this blood-magic works._


End file.
